His hands


I was in the kitchen the other evening, watching my husband rinse lettuce. I smiled at the sight of his capable hands. And I thought of everything his hands represent to me.

So many stories live in these hands

So many stories live in these hands

When I see his hands, I see:

  • The damage the hot iron burned into his skin when he was five;
  • The agility of fingers that have years of experience chopping, dicing, carving, and creating culinary masterpieces;
  • The sun spots from hours spent outside, working in the yard, doing construction, fishing in lakes, rivers and oceans;
  • The gold band on his ring finger that he’s worn faithfully and dutifully for seventeen years;
  • The palms that cup my face and press against the small of my back;
  • The fingers that interlock with mine so perfectly, so comfortably, that touch me with a tenderness born of love and commitment.

I smell:

  • Remnants of garlic and onion from last night’s stir-fry;
  • A hint of sawdust from his latest carpentry project;
  • The richness of soil embedded under his nails from the new cutting he planted;
  • The burn of solder from the stained glass he’s designing for my birthday;
  • The sweetness of cedar and spice of amber from his cologne;
  • The subtle lingering of my perfume from holding my hand.

My husband’s hands are strong, over-worked, and an extension of his gracious heart. Each evening, as we close our eyes, he squeezes my hand “good night” and it assures me of more than he could possibly say with words.

I have also been thinking about my Father’s hands.

Between my hubby and God, I am in very good hands.


14 thoughts on “His hands

      • I had a bad headache, so just woke up from a nap. No kidding, I heard The Lord say as I was waking up “in the hands of the mighty oak”. I thought what does that mean. Then I grabbed my phone and read this. I always used to sing Jesus love me and He’s got the whole world in His hands when I was little. Thanks, Heather I needed this! ā¤

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